The supply shift Detective Granger described coincided roughly with Briggs and Salcedo’s return to the street.

Worth had still been married then, he realized. Not by much, but still. It hardly seemed possible, from then to this, that not even a year had passed.

“How’s that?” Granger said.

The audio technician in the other room adjusted his headphones and gave a thumbs-up.

“Before the public defender got here, we explained the particulars of involuntary manslaughter to Derek Price,” Mark Vargas said. “He’s been highly voluntary since then.”

“According to Price, this money Tony and Ray are looking for was supposed to have been en route to Chicago,” Granger said. “Price says that Russell James muled contraband between here and there, transporting product and returning cash.”

He motioned for Worth to button his shirt, checking for bulges.

“Price and Mather distributed the product to the dealer level via furniture trucks, inside television boxes and whatnot,” Granger said. “Price says they handled collections along the same routes. Ray and Tony handled protection and managed beefs on the street level.”

From the corner, Captain Torres said, “The ironic thing is, last compstat? Drug violence is down in the Northeast.” In her smirk, Worth saw the Gina Torres he remembered from the academy. “How’s that for community policing?”

“Regular crimedogs, Ray and Tony.” Granger motioned for Worth to unbutton his shirt again. “Cleaning up the streets one degenerate dirtbag at a time. How’s that feel?”

Worth shrugged. “Like a microphone taped to my chest.”

“Good, that means it’s working.” Granger crossed two more strips of tape over the base of the mike bud and said, “Still reading okay?”

Another thumbs up-from the audio tech.

According to Levon Williams, Tony Briggs had been placed on emergency family leave effective this afternoon. Ray Salcedo had posted for duty as normal, no doubt to maintain reasonable appearances.

The only real surprise was that the money drop wasn’t going to be a drop after all.

It was going to be a handoff. Adding yet another twist Worth hadn’t anticipated, Tony Briggs’s call had been to set up a face-to-face meeting, in public, at a midtown bar.

Worth felt as though he’d reached the inner core of the bomb.

It was getting difficult to keep track of the final snarl of wires. There were lies spliced with truths. Interconnected triggers. Who knew how many variables? All with one simple, unstable, incontrovertible fact at the center.

“Russell James has obviously been taken out of the picture,” the new guy said.

His name was Terry Farmer, a Special Agent with the DEA’s Omaha District Office. He’d arrived at Central Station this afternoon.

“Which leaves a chunk of cash still unaccounted for, Tice’s crew beefing internally, and now, suddenly, a power vaccuum,” Agent Farmer said. “If Briggs and Salcedo are suddenly open to talking business, maybe we can work toward developing a line on their product source in Chicago.”

Worth said, “What makes you think they want to talk business?”

Agent Terry Farmer looked at him casually. He had an average build, a level manner of speaking, and a vaguely outdoorsy air.

Worth looked at him back.

“Just speculation,” Farmer said. “Either way, Officer, here’s your chance to convince some people you’re one of the good guys here.”

“Not that there are doubts, right?”

Farmer gave him a smile that could have meant just about anything.

“Okay,” Detective Granger said. “Let’s go run it down.”

They all filed out: Vargas first, followed by Granger and Torres. Followed by Special Agent Farmer, who carried the duffel bag Granger’s team had dummied up with department cash based on consultation from Derek Price.

The audio guy stayed behind, packing up gear.

Down the hall the rest of them went, to a meeting room filled with more cops. Detectives, officers, commanders. A sergeant from weapons and tactics. Terry Farmer’s crew from the DEA.

In their midst sat an off-duty checkout girl, looking pale, out of place, and alone. Worth smiled and joined her at the table, a hell of a grocery bagger if he did say so.

There was a lot Tony Briggs could take.

Pain? No problem. Stupidity? Sure. Bullshit? Went with the job.

He’d soothed crack babies and been puked on by drunks. He’d taken his ration of shit from pencil-necks. Death, dismemberment, blight, decay: Welcome to his and Ray’s little corner of the world.

But he couldn’t take the sight of Aunt Joanie.

She’d made it all the way through until dinner before the weight of the day finally brought her down. The shock, the heartbreak, the disbelief. The flat-out indignity of it all.

Thirty years together, her and Eddie. Half a lifetime in the foxhole, back to back. It hadn’t always been pretty, and it hadn’t been perfect, but they’d stuck together through sunshine and shit. Thirty years of working, fighting, worrying, laughing, crying, raising their kids.

And it all came down to this:

Eddie, shot in the head. Her husband, shot to death sitting in his chair. Murdered in his office at two in the morning with his cheap little office whore.

Tony stayed with the family at Uncle Eddie’s big house in Gretna until the place cleared out, long after dark. A little after 10 P.M., he left his mom and his cousin Carmen with Aunt Joan, his pager number, and enough Xanax to knock down a horse.

He made it back to the apartment by ten-thirty. He stripped down and took a scalding shower, and by 11 P.M., he was almost ready to go.

Tony dressed in jeans, a black sweatshirt, and mid-top boots. He laid out a selection of equipment on the bed. After debating a minute, he picked up a Beretta Tomcat, secured in a pocket holster.

It was a palm-size .32, easy to conceal. Good for tight spaces. He flipped the barrel and checked the load.

He took off the safety with his thumb.

Then he turned fast, leveling at the footsteps behind him.

Ray Salcedo stopped in the doorway, showing his palms.

“Yo,” he said. “Go easy, Crockett.”

Briggs grinned and lowered the gun. “You don’t knock anymore?”

Ray was still decked in his patrol gear, mobile radio turned down low. He slipped his lock picks back into their leather sheath, snapped the flap, put the case back in its spot on his belt.

“I knocked for ten minutes.”

“Guess I was in the shower,” Tony said. “How was shift?”

“Nice and quiet.”

“Catch any bad guys?”

“Gave ’em the night off.” Ray strolled in, glancing at the bed. “How’s your aunt?”

“Deeply tranquilized. You ten-seven?”

“Not yet. On the way now.”

Tony nodded slowly. “So what’s up?”

“I don’t know,” Ray said. “You want to tell me?”

Tony faced him and said nothing. No point insulting anyone’s intelligence.

“You left the phone we’ve been using to call the Mullen girl in my truck,” Salcedo said. “I checked the outgoing numbers before I posted on shift.”

“No shit.”

“Last call I made was last night.”

“What’s your point?”

Ray nodded toward the belly gun in Tony’s hand. “Going out?”

Tony chuckled, tossed the Beretta back onto the bed. He pushed by Ray and went over to the dresser, grabbed his wallet and watch.

Ray said, “I thought we were on the same page.”

“Don’t worry, partner,” Tony told him. “You still get your share.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

When Tony came back over, Ray stopped him. One hand to the chest, five fingers spread. Like stopping some punk trying to duck a scene.

Tony looked down at Ray’s hand for a long time.

He finally looked at Ray.